Pulled Under

I start to paddle along, and I can feel the wave grab hold of my board. I pop up and feel a surge of confidence as I race across the face of it. There’s a moment of hesitation when I’m trying to decide if I want to carve or do a cutback, and it’s in the middle of that hesitation when I pearl like a grommet, which is what we call a new and inexperienced surfer. The tip of my board digs into the water and sends me flying over the front. I slam face forward into the water.

Everything’s in slow motion as I rag-doll underwater. I ca

The other surfers smirk when they see me. It’s obvious to them that I have no business in the Main Event. As I wait my turn I feel like I have let everybody down, and I start to hyperventilate. Then one of the guys says something to me.

“What’s up with him?” he asks as he points toward the pier.

Sophie warned me about getting distracted, so I ignore him. I’m straddling my board and looking for swells. But then I hear a laugh. And then another. The other surfers are all looking at the pier, so finally I look over too.

It’s Ben.

He’s standing at the end of the pier wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bra. It’s just like he described to me and it makes me laugh. Sophie and Nicole are with him, and the three of them are all doing the hula.

This cures my panic attack. My friends know me well.

I take a slow breath. I see a wave coming, and now I am confident that I am dialed in. On the next wave I combine a floater, where you ride along the top, with a snap, when you shoot down off the wave, and then a roundabout cutback that is as pretty as any I’ve ever done. I finish by pumping across the wave, which is a showy form of carving, and finally end it by smacking the lip.

When I go back out to the lineup, the smirks are all gone. I can tell they wonder why they’ve never seen me before.

“What’s your name?” one of the guys asks me.

“Izzy Lucas,” I say as I straddle the board and catch my breath.

“Sweet ride, Izzy,” he replies.

“Thanks.”

My tenth-place finish in the first prelim easily puts me in the semifinal, but it’s going to take more than that to make it to the finals. We go out in two groups of eight, and I am in the second group. This is good because it lets me rest a little and work up a strategy.

“What are you thinking?” Dad asks as he comes up to me.

“You know what I’m thinking,” I tell him.

I can tell by his expression that he does. I thought I’d try the aerial in the final, but now I think I’m going to have to do it just to make it into the final eight.

“Don’t forget that you have to post two scores,” he says.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

I love the expression he gives me. It is one of total pride and confidence.

I let that confidence build inside me when I paddle out for the semifinals. Bailey Kossoff, the defending champion, is in this group. He’s quiet and focused, and I study him to see what he’s doing. He’s the first one in the group to catch a wave, and he sets the bar high with an aggressive run that flows as easy as water.

“Damn,” one of the other surfers says. “We’re just playing for second.”

I take off on the next wave, and even though I’m looking for a chance to get air, the wave doesn’t really play out that way. Instead, I execute a flawless floater along the top, then I drop down and do what’s called a vertical backhand snap. You build up as much speed as you can and then stick the board up off the top of the wave and whack it back down.

I feel good about it, but I still think it’s going to take something bigger to get me into the finals. I’m determined that it be an aerial. I try to get air on each of the next two waves I catch, and even though I’m close to landing it, I fall off each time.

I paddle back out and am concerned about the amount of time I’ve got left. I’ve only posted one score, and if I try the aerial again and fail, I might not get another chance.

I can’t think that way. I know I can do it, so I’m going to give it everything.

I catch the next wave and keep things basic with some carving while I look for the perfect spot to launch. It comes to me like a vision, and the wave unfolds perfectly. I take off into the air, and this time I don’t reach down and grab the rail. I trust the board and fly. And fly. It feels like I’m up forever. My legs buckle a bit when I land it, but I stay on the board and feel a rush of adrenaline charge through my body. I do another cutback and finish my ride.

I’m too exhausted to go back, and even though there’s a little bit of time left, I decide to call it for the round. If I have not posted high enough scores with those rides, it’s just not going to happen. I wade up to the waterline and plop down on the sand.

“When did you learn to do that?” Sophie asks as she sits down next to me. “When did you learn to catch air?”

“Just now,” I say with a laugh. “That’s the first time I landed it.”

“Well, you picked a pretty good first time,” Nicole adds. “You really got up there.”

Once I catch my breath, I get up and head over to the Surf Sisters crowd. My dad is beaming.

“I told you you could land it!”

I smile at him, but I’m still a nervous wreck.

We have to wait a few minutes for the scores to be tabulated, and when they are, I am in the final. I’ve climbed all the way up to sixth place, but that doesn’t matter now, because all the scores are reset at zero for the finals.

Before we go out, all the finalists pose together for a picture beneath the King of the Beach sign. Not only am I the only girl in the group, but I’m also the only one who’s not competing for Surf City.

I start walking over to Mickey and Mo to get some last second pointers when Morgan Bullard suddenly cuts me off.

“Morgan Bullard,” he says, extending his hand to me. “Surf City.”

“I know,” I say. “I was there earlier when you were yelling at everybody.”

He doesn’t let this faze him one bit. He just chuckles and says, “What can I tell you? I’m passionate about surfing.”

“Is that what you call it? Passion?”

“You were . . . impressive out there. Izzy, is it?”

I nod my head yes, my eyes wandering for Mo, wondering if she had anything to do with Morgan Bullard taking time out of his precious life to talk with me.

“I just wanted to introduce myself and say that there might be a spot on our team for you in the future. It’s a sad thing that Surf Sisters is going to close, but I hope you’d consider joining up with us next season.”

“That’s very nice of you to offer,” I say, mustering all the politeness I can.

“Well, it’s not an official offer, not yet,” he says. “I just want you to know it’s a possibility.”

“Of course,” I say.

Bullard leans in to me, his lips mere inches from my ear. Considering that sharing an entire miles-long beach with this overly ta

“Think about it,” Bullard whispers, turning to leave as Ben comes to my rescue, ready to give me the latest on scoring.

“You’re amazing,” Ben says. “When you flew up in the air, I had chills. I am so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to shake my run-in with Bullard and keep my focus on what’s still to come. “What’s the magic number? How high do I have to finish?”

“Third,” he says, and I feel the air race out of my lungs.

“Really? Third? I thought you said top five.”

“That was before Surf City took all of the seven other spots in the Main Event final. Fourth would tie it, but Surf City would win the tiebreaker. You’re going to need third to get the trophy.”